


whisper to the flame

by MissFaber



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur validating Merlin is my kink, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Good Morgana (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Mutual Pining, Prince Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin (Merlin), background gwencelot, happy pride month to the biggest gays that ever were, magic reveal of my dreams, my love letter to merthur, sacrificial Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: Though his manservant is useless at most things, he is quite adept at lighting fires.+ Merlin and Arthur, a love story told through the kindling of many flames.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1023





	whisper to the flame

**Author's Note:**

> it’s _**MY**_ 2020 and I’ll write a soft magic reveal fic if I wANT TO
> 
> I must credit [this video](https://youtu.be/MqeewSkzMxQ) for starting my merthur renaissance in the godforsaken year 2020— everyone go watch it, it’s a work of art. Watch that video over five hundred times, as I have, and I guarantee you’ll write a merthur fic too!
> 
> I haven’t watched Merlin in a very long time so in terms of _timing..._ Uther is alive, Arthur is prince, Gwaine and Lancelot are both knights, Arthur has developed feelings for Gwen, Morgana is acting weird… soooo somewhere in season 2 or early season 3? But we’re also going to pretend Elyan and Percival are there?? Idk! Suspend your disbelief and enjoy.
> 
> [check out the fic photoset here!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/620132266529751040/whisper-to-the-flame-a-magic-reveal-hurt)

Arthur _wanted_ to say the slip was unavoidable, and if anyone were to ask that is what he would say. There had been a landslide along the bank, a torrent of snake-smooth rocks that slid along his heels and dragged him to the water’s edge and below. He might even throw in a drowning maiden or frightened child if the need arose, but Arthur didn’t think it would. They were barely a day from Camelot, and all evidence of his little slip will have disappeared. No one would find out.

_Except._

Arthur glared at Merlin. Though he had to admit after years together that Merlin could be trusted when it mattered, Arthur’s vanity—no, his _pride_ —lay decidedly among the things that did _not_ matter to Merlin. In that regard, Merlin was terrible at keeping secrets.

Though spring had begun, there was a kip to the air and the riverwater had been shockingly cold when it swallowed him whole. He swore he could feel icicles forming in his hair already, though he’d already dried his head on his thick cloak.

“Hurry _up,_ Merlin,” Arthur harangued, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt after, for he could see Merlin struggling to prep their dinner for cooking and hang Arthur’s wet clothes to dry while keeping an eye on one of the horses, who seemed spooked by the fall. Merlin’s clothes were wet, too. Merlin had jumped in after him, the idiot, though all he’d done was splash around at waist-level until Arthur found his own footing and dragged them both out.

“Yes, sire.” It was a diminished response, and Arthur would have been worried he’d truly hurt Merlin’s feelings did he not immediately follow it by throwing the speared meat in his hands to the ground, picking up two flint stones instead.

Arthur tutted, ignoring the delight that sprung in his chest as reaction to Merlin’s provocation. “I hope you know you’ve just ruined your own dinner.”

Merlin shrugged, scrunching his nose and shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t fancy dirt and worms.”

“And _I_ do?”

“Perfect diet for a dollophead.”

By the time Arthur had his sodden boot in his hand to throw at Merlin’s head, the fire was already lit—not just a thin stream of smoke from the first kindling, but a brilliant, huge thing. He could already feel the warmth on his face.

“Excellent,” Arthur mumbled, scooching closer. For all his failings, his manservant was surprisingly adept at lightning fires.

He rubbed his hands together first, then tossed his head forward, close to the flames as he dared. He watched the water drip into the dirt, exhausted enough by the hunt and the fall to be mesmerized by the monotonous rhythm. When he shook himself out of the near-trance and looked up, he found Merlin staring at him, sitting still.

Arthur jerked his gaze away, unnerved for a reason he didn’t want to name.

“My dinner? _Tonight?”_ It wasn’t as creative as he liked to be, but it did the trick. Merlin snapped to action, as well as a lazy sod like him could.

“Why are you in such a hurry about it? It’s not like you need the extra padding.”

In the beginning, Merlin’s shamelessness had been a shock. Now it was expected. Any deference or respect or those reverent speeches Merlin’s been fond of making lately about _“the kind of king he’s meant to be”_ alarmed Arthur, drove him to discover the cause for the break in Merlin’s patterns.

Arthur hadn’t thought of the early days in a long time, but they’d been coming to mind more and more lately. As Morgana became more of a bitter shell and less of the bright, bold person she’d been before. As the fledgling _thing_ between him and Gwen grew past fondness and the knot in his stomach grew too, not just because of Lancelot’s clearly suppressed pain. As his father pressed him to marry well, to make an alliance for Camelot where he was the thing to be traded. He didn’t like to think about any of that, didn’t like to think about how everything was changing far too quickly, and in the citadel it was impossible to avoid.

So he’d gone on a hunt, relying on the power of escape and of old comforts, and despite his father’s disapproving glare he’d taken only Merlin.

“Arthur?”

Merlin was staring again, _watching_ him the way no one else did—he was a prince to near everyone else, not a person, after all—and Arthur tried to recall the latest insult to respond appropriately.

“Sorry, did I miss something to come out of that vacant space between your ears?”

Merlin half-smiled— not at all convinced of his well being, Arthur knew— but he allowed the moment to pass. For Arthur’s sake. “Just something about how you’re not only a prat, but a fat one too.”

“I’m surprised, Merlin. I would have though rhyming beyond your abilities.”

Merlin pinched his lips and looked down in a way Arthur was starting to notice. Like he was holding in a laugh at a joke Arthur had missed. “I don’t know. I might still surprise you.”

 _“That,_ I believe.” The smell of roasted boar and that blend of spices Merlin always carried when they left the citadel tickled his nose. The fire roared on, though Arthur had gathered most of the firewood and nearly everything had been discouragingly heavy from the last spring rain. But Merlin had always had a talent for it, could start a fire quicker than anyone in any camp.

“Was that almost a compliment?”

“Not at all. Most surprises are terrible ones.”

Merlin jerked his gaze low, pain flashing across his features so quick Arthur wondered if he really saw it. “I can see why you’d think that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well…” Merlin looked up, every emotion showing so completely in his eyes in the way only he could manage. “I know your father’s been pushing—”

Arthur held up a hand. He hadn’t left Camelot to discuss his troubles, damp and shivering, with _Merlin._ To his credit, Merlin stopped speaking immediately, shifting forward to tend to the cooking meat.

“I think it’s done.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “So your stomach says.”

“So my _nose_ says.”

Merlin leaned towards the fire, peering at the meat as if to test Arthur’s claim, his face disappearing behind the flames. Arthur jolted forward, half irritated and half afraid the idiot would singe his eyebrows off.

“Merlin!” Was he _whispering_ to it? “Good _gods,_ Merlin—it can’t hear you, it’s dead.”

Merlin drew back, grinning. The military man within Arthur did a cursory check, but found Merlin to be unharmed, brows intact.

“You’re right.” Merlin handed him more than half the cooked meat. “Ready.”

They tucked in, silent but for the sounds of eating, a rare gift with Merlin. When the first pang of hunger abated Arthur slowed, looking across the fire at Merlin. His hair was dripping onto his shoulders, leaving two wet patches and making him shiver.

“Do you have even the slightest survival instinct?” Arthur pointed to the packs tied to the horses, leaving no room in his voice for even Merlin to argue. “Get into something dry, and hang your wet things by the fire.”

Merlin rose slowly, chewing and swallowing a mouthful of his dinner before smiling slightly. “Yes, sire.”

Normally, when Merlin said “sire” it sounded like an insult, but this time it didn’t.

* * *

In the deep, evergreen dark of the forest, Merlin heard much. The hum of life in the soil beneath him and threading through the trees. Hummingbird heartbeats of the small creatures that hid in the night. Those minutes—the dark, silent ones between when they made camp and when the first fire was lit—were the worst for the knights and their prince, the most frightening, Merlin knew. They could not hear. They could not see.

Merlin waited until enough firewood was gathered and enough attempts made. In spring the wood was always heavy with rain, in winter frozen past any utility. He listened to the futile scrape of flint stones and muffled curses, waited until it was reasonable for him to step in. Then the fire was lit and the knights were murmuring appreciatively, huddling closer for warmth, and Merlin had long since stepped away. Sometimes he wondered if anyone saw—not the quietly muttered spell or the flare of gold but that it was _him,_ Merlin, who set the fire with the flint stones they did not know he didn’t need in his hands.

But Arthur’s eyes were on him. Not sliding and dismissive, not blazing with challenge, not mischievous and seeking some of the distraction or affection or whatever that push and push and _push_ until there was no more space was. No—Arthur was soft, sleepy and comfortable as he tended to get during the last leg of the end of a successful journey. The diplomatic mission to Nemeth had been fruitful, leaving Arthur with a peaceful stillness about him. It was a glimpse of what he would be like without the shadow of Uther’s disapproval, what he would be like as king.

“You’re somewhat good at that, you know.”

Merlin smiled. It felt slow as molasses stretching across his face, and the expression on Arthur’s was just as sweet. “It was bound to happen.”

A low chuckle, dip of his chin. Arthur was a gift like this. 

“How do you do it?”

A pang of alarm; brief, quickly quieted. _He can’t really know._ “I’m not sure what you mean,” Merlin answered, feeling the tips of his ears burning and hoping he didn’t sound odd.

“Hmm,” Arthur intoned, communicating disappointment in just that small sound that cut Merlin deep. He wanted to keep them where they had been a moment ago, to _explain—_ but Arthur had already moved on, one of the knights commanding his attention. A twinge in his chest, Merlin turned to stare at the flames.

* * *

“That’ll be all, Merlin.”

Arthur pressed one hand to the stones above the fireplace, leaning against it as he watched the dancing flames. A weary sigh escaped him, delicious though it did nothing to ease his tension. He didn’t have to stifle it, didn’t have to school or smother or suppress. Merlin was his only audience. It was like being alone.

Grim images filled his mind. The wild, unsettled look in Morgana’s eyes; the pained, disappointed one in Gwen’s. The expectant one in Uther’s that told him he was lacking.

“I think you’d benefit from a bath, sire.”

 _Not_ like being alone, then.

Arthur spun on his heel. “Are you saying I _smell,_ Merlin?”

“No man would smell like roses after four hours of training, and the supervision of the new rooms in the west wing, _and_ a rather pointless expedition into the woods.”

“What man smells like roses?” Arthur both wondered if Merlin was speaking of someone from his memory—a sour thought—and ignored Merlin’s true meaning. That he was overworked, that his father was too eager to send him on wild and dangerous expeditions as soon as he heard the word _“_ sorcery”. 

“I never said you smell,” Merlin smiled. “I said you’d _benefit_ from it. A hot bath is exactly what you need.”

“Who are _you_ to tell me what I need,” Arthur grumbled in response, but Merlin had already walked to the door with purpose.

Merlin was right, though Arthur would not admit it. He lowered himself into the perfectly hot water, releasing a groan as the heavenly heat absorbed the tension from his tight muscles. Degree by degree his muscles relaxed, melting like butter in the sun, and when he opened his eyes he realized he’d fallen asleep, though not much time must have passed as the water was still pleasantly warm, and Merlin was still there. Arthur’s eyes traced the curve of Merlin’s back, all he could see of him. No, it wasn’t like being alone. It was better.

Merlin was turned away, staring into the fire as Arthur had been before, so Arthur let himself look freely. He was crouched on his haunches, an uncomfortable position to be sure, but one of Merlin’s favorites. Arthur was familiar with some of the ways Merlin liked to hold his body, and he didn’t think it wise to invite himself to think about the ways he was not familiar with. Though he could not see it, Arthur could imagine the nook Merlin’s stitched fingers will have formed to hold his chin. There were things he wanted to say to his manservant, things the prince of Camelot was not free to say.

Merlin’s head twisted as if it sensed his thoughts, and Arthur’s ears burned even as he adopted a languorous sneer. “I can nod off if I like, Merlin, but you’re still on the job.”

“Never stopped me before,” Merlin chirped back, though they both knew he had not been asleep. Arthur wondered what he _was_ doing, staring into the fire like that, what troubles and thoughts he had that he lost time to.

“Are you finished?” Merlin asked quietly, and Arthur scoffed.

“Hasn’t been that long, Merlin. Water’s still warm.” He didn’t look at his manservant when he continued, “You can leave if you like.”

“It _is_ late… that nobleman’s delegation is arriving tomorrow and the servants will have to be up even earlier than usual…” Arthur lost the shape of Merlin’s prattling and listened to the melody of the words, the rhythm and the heat making his eyelids heavy.

“Sire.”

His eyes snapped open and he saw that Merlin had laid a thicker tunic than the one Arthur had been wearing on the bench. Merlin was a puzzle, sometimes so painfully forgetful and other times as thoughtful as a mother hen.

“It’s cold,” Merlin said, the words “good night” wrapped in others, as it was their way to do. Arthur’s eyes traced the outline of those shapely lips. It was a thing when, once seen, could not be unseen.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he responded, saying good night as well.

And although Merlin didn’t sleep in the antechamber and Arthur himself did not wake to stoke the fire in the night, it burned bright til morning.

* * *

They were hunting down the Valkyrie that had doomed Camelot’s prince to an untimely death when Arthur asked once more.

“How’d you light that fire so quick, Merlin?”

Now that Merlin actually heard the question, he realized it was not the first time Arthur had asked it. Arthur had _noticed,_ and Merlin’s scrambling brain tried to place when it might have started. Gods, why was he never careful enough? Despite knowing better, Merlin could never resist using magic to ease the discomfort of being on the road. Gaius would knock Merlin up the head if he could hear Arthur now.

“I asked you a question, Merlin.”

Only the lightness of his tone kept Merlin’s breath from turning into a full blown panic. But Arthur couldn’t have seen anything, couldn’t _know._ Not truly. He would never ask so indifferently if he did.

“It’s a secret,” Merlin responded, hoping he sounded appropriately insolent and not like his heart was close to beating out of his chest.

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, alright.” He passed Hengroen’s reins to a squire so as to plant his hands at his hips and stare down at Merlin, who felt the heavy, heady weight of the prince’s undivided attention. “You’re my servant. You can’t keep secrets.”

“This might be a shock to you, but servants are also people, prone to people… things.”

It wasn’t as clever as he liked to be, but Arthur still ducked his head and chuckled. It seemed he enjoyed laughing at Merlin’s idiocy just as much as he enjoyed his wittier remarks. “Not that. I meant that I know you, Merlin, and you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

Merlin wondered how many years would pass before the irony would sting less. How long it would be before he wouldn’t yearn to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him and make him _see._

“I’ve kept many secrets for you,” Merlin said.

“It’s a privilege to keep a prince’s secrets,” Arthur responded, whip-quick, and although he was goading him, Merlin agreed. “So come on, return the favor. Tell me how. You’re always able to make a fire when every one of us has tried and failed.”

“I don’t know what’s more shocking—that you admitted you’ve failed at something, or that I’m good at something.”

 _“Good?_ That’s quite a leap.” Arthur rolled his eyes and stepped closer, into his space, obliterating all else—the knights, the camp, the damned fire that had started all this. “You’re taking quite a few liberties there, _Mer_ lin.”

Those words made something hot as the fire in question unfurl low in his belly, but Merlin was quite practiced at ignoring it.

“Oh?” He tilted his chin up from his work, wearing an expression of total innocence. Bait that Arthur immediately took, stepping even closer, challenge flaring in his eyes. “I think I’m making a logical assumption. _I_ have a skill, a _valuable_ skill, one you want to learn.”

Warning tingled beneath Merlin’s skin, an instinct that told him not to draw any more attention to this. But he knew that if he behaved any differently, Arthur would be more suspicious. This was natural to them. Their rhythm.

“If you’re so _skillful,_ why don’t you show us?”

Merlin smiled tightly. A mistake indeed.

“Come _on,”_ Arthur goaded, and a few of the knights were watching them now. Arthur’s spells of fascination with him were welcome entertainment on long, stressful journeys. “Tell me.” 

“I don’t think your big head has any room for new information.” Merlin knew he would simply have to entertain Arthur until he grew bored of this line of questioning and moved onto something else—and move on he would, Merlin was sure of that.

But Arthur was undeterred by the barb, broke their rhythm of pushing back with cleverer, more insulting words by reducing himself to repetition, to two sincere ones.

“Tell me.”

Merlin found himself avoiding Arthur’s eyes, then stopped and met his gaze, as Arthur would surely find that suspicious. “I rub the… the two stones together. Even a dollophead like you must know that.”

“Tell me,” Arthur said again, voice lower as if it was for Merlin alone.

Merlin felt bound to respond the same. “I cannot.”

“You mean you _will_ not.”

Words sit in his throat, none of them good enough. “Arthur—” he starts, but Arthur waves a hand.

“You choose not to, Merlin.” Arthur had turned away, his hands busy at Hengroen’s side, and he threw his head back and laughed at something a knight said before glancing back at Merlin, a wide grin that had nothing to do with him on his face. “I’ll find out, one day.”

“Yes.” Merlin swallowed thickly, imagining this end of the road. When he would kneel before Arthur and take either his clemency or his sword. “Yes, one day, I will tell you.”

 _“One day….”_ Arthur stretched the words, cocked a brow. “When we’re two old codgers pottering around, eh, Merlin?” Arthur bent to ruffle Merlin’s hair in that fond way of his that was becoming quite a usual practice. “Don’t expect I’ll be out of the citadel much. What use will it be to me then?”

Merlin swallowed the swell of emotion that rose within him at the mental image those words evoked. Arthur did not mean them to be sweet, did not mean them to be the reason Merlin felt himself holding back tears. That Arthur saw Merlin by his side when he was an old man was more than he’d dared to hope for. It was Merlin’s dream, and one that he now knew Arthur shared.

* * *

The Valkyrie was felled by a simple spell that Merlin and Gaius had lost two nights of sleep to find. Arthur had taken the glory, wore it as well as any of his fine clothes or his armor or his sword. He was made for it, and Merlin stepped back, happy. He was not always, but he was happy today; the danger was past, and Arthur was alive.

And if Arthur was quiet after the adrenaline of victory faded, so were they all. He was energetic once more after they made camp, when the knights recounted the gory details and hailed their prince. Arthur smiled but ate more than he talked, and when Merlin went to light the fire, Arthur stopped him. They had eaten from the trail packs on horseback, ravenous after the pursuit and the kill, and it was a fine spring night. Arthur said he was not cold.

* * *

The Queen of Mercia had fallen ill, Uther announced to his son and his son’s manservant, though Merlin was quite sure Uther did not count him among the audience. Though it had been an unseasonably cold spring, Uther said they would honor the alliance between their kingdoms by making the journey to bring her gifts and herbs and well-wishes. Later that night, Merlin learned from Arthur that Uther hoped to make a match between Morgana and Bayard’s son, who had recently come of age and made up for his lack of experience with lands and wealth and, perhaps most valuable to Uther, a marked alliance against magic.

Merlin barely slept that night, picturing the horror of Morgana’s position if this match were to become a reality, itching to go to her.

The journey was short, and their stay in Mercia even shorter. It was amusing to watch the two kings pretend to forget that Bayard was once held in Uther’s dungeons for a sorcereress’s sins. But Merlin did not forget, and he kept a close eye on Arthur for the duration of their stay in the dark castle.

He watched over Morgana too, overheard her rant at Uther beyond closed doors when his intentions became clear. Merlin doubted that he was the only one who heard her brutal words, and the delegation from Camelot left Mercia soon after that.

Uther was in rare form on the journey home, snapping at every attendant and knight until a wide berth formed around him. He refused to make camp and ordered the procession to ride through the night, citing they were sure to reach Camelot in a few short hours and spend the majority of the night in their beds. But Uther quickly took back his words and ordered them to make camp, everyone scrambling to carry out his order with haste.

After two attendants and a knight had faced the king’s ire after attempting to light a fire and failing, Leon nudged his elbow. “Merlin, the king’s impatient.”

“Away, Leon.” Arthur materialized out of mist before Merlin could think how to respond.

Leon looked between them, perhaps mystified, but bowed his head and said nothing.

“Merlin, attend to me.” Arthur spoke softly, almost too soft to be heard, but the steel thrum of authority reverberated in his voice all the same. Arthur would not be disobeyed. “Now.”

Heat on Merlin’s neck caused him to look back, and Morgana’s eyes were trained on him, knowing and hollow.

* * *

For all his father’s fear-mongering of magic, it wasn’t a sorcerer or an enchanted beast that felled him. It was a bandit on the side of the road.

The hoard descended upon them as they were packing up camp. Half their horses were loose, half their fires banked, half their tents erect. Half the men leapt immediately to fight, half dropping a pack or bedroll before following a moment later. Arthur’s sword was the first to be raised and first to draw blood, and although he had a small legion of knights to protect his frantic eyes sought out Merlin.

Merlin could not be found. Arthur growled, his sword striking down the next man with a force that did not alleviate his rage. _“Merlin!”_ The name was barely past his lips, his eyes only half-done sweeping the vicinity before another bandit raised a thick sword.

“I don’t see him!” Arthur placed the voice as Gwaine, could not speak or even think a response before another bandit charged him.

Blood pumped in his ears. So Merlin had retreated, then, as he always did. Once Arthur had though him a coward for it, but he knew now that he was forced to seek cover to fight the only way he could. That Arthur’s presence was what forced him to hide.

An onslaught of emotion, nameless but hot as fire, rippled through him, fled through his sword. His body moved fluidly, needing little from his mind to fight. Too much—the shock of the attack when these woods had been cleared months ago, the fear he felt in his knees.

Until—

Arthur saw him, the shock of black hair tucked into a hollow in the cliffside. He could see no more of him, for Merlin had raised his arm to conceal his face. A poor shield. Bandits fell before him, falling swift and violent, their skulls cracking on discarded weaponry that littered the forest floor.

A battle cry sounded from behind him, spiking Arthur’s heart, but before he could whirl the bandit had dropped like a sack of stones. There was no conveniently placed weaponry beneath him, but the man was dead—his eyes were open and lifeless, blood trickled from his nose and his ears. _Oh, Merlin._

Drawn, Arthur looked back, had to look back. The rocks above Merlin’s little hiding place were shaking, the collapse of dust forming a thin curtain between them. Arthur’s heart stopped. His lips parted. Merlin _had_ to sense it—even he felt it now, the rumble beneath his feet. _Move—_ except Merlin stayed where he was, where he was safe to drop the bandits that did not seem to end.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasped, suddenly bleached of sound, scurrying forward unthinkingly to pull the idiot out of danger.

Merlin’s arm fell, and their eyes met through the veil of grey. Then his face changed, contorting with fear.

Arthur had only a heartbeat’s warning—Merlin’s piercing _“Arthur!”_ —before the sword drove into his side.

The bite of steel was the same, always the same. Yet Arthur knew instantly this was different. He’d never felt this pain, the pain of a sword’s slice, so deep in his body. Time seemed to have frozen as he managed to look down, saw his mail and tunic and the skin beneath split cleanly and parted, then he realized he was on his knees.

Black spots danced across his vision, and then he could no longer see, but he heard several things. Someone calling out Merlin’s name—Gwaine, or perhaps Lancelot. He heard the avalanche. His heart lurched. Then it was his own name he heard.

“I didn’t see.” Somewhere above him, Merlin was crying. “I don’t know how, I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

 _He’s alright._ Arthur let peace take him.

* * *

Awareness brought pain, and Arthur grit his teeth against it, squeezed his still-closed eyes tightly as if that would make a difference. It didn’t, and as the pain swelled along with his wakefulness he released a low moan he could not control.

“Arthur,” spoke Merlin’s voice, and that anchored him.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Merlin’s face took shape first. A bruise bloomed across his jaw, his cheek scraped severely, an angry red line cutting through one brow. Arthur tried to move his head, his hands, to examine Merlin more thoroughly as he’d done countless times after battles and adventures, but couldn’t. He couldn’t move.

Someone behind Merlin spoke, and Arthur realized they weren’t alone. With intense concentration, Arthur identified Leon’s voice, and his words started to take shape. “… we have enough bandages. Merlin says we shouldn’t move you, so we’ve sent for Gaius. Sir Percival on Anglides, the fastest mare… he and Sir Elyan will be able to keep Gaius safe. They will ride hard. He should be here by dawn.”

Arthur thought he understood what Leon was telling him. He asked his next question carefully; much depended on the answer. “Will it matter?”

Leon hesitated. “Sire—none of us are physicians—”

“No, but you are knights.” They had seen and nursed many wounds, just as he had. “Tell me what you know.”

Leon stayed quiet, mouth grim.

“The truth, Sir Leon,” Arthur pushed, daring his best knight to disrespect him with anything else.

Leon bowed his head. “The wound will not stop bleeding.” His use of the present was vaguely alarming. “I think… I worry, sire, you may not make it through the night.”

Merlin was still and silent, eyes trained on his lap. This worried Arthur more than Leon’s diagnosis. The light of day—high noon, Arthur thought—beat bright even through the walls of the tent. Dawn of the next day seemed very far.

“Very well.” Arthur took a deep breath to steel himself for what he was about to do, but found it unneeded. He was calm. Arthur was born and bred in battle—a part of him always knew this was a possibility, that he would die young. This wasn’t the difficult part. “I will need a record of my final wishes. I choose you for this task, Leon, and we will need a witness. Please summon Sir Kay.”

The slight tremble of Leon’s jaw was the only display of emotion he showed in response to this request. “Sire,” he said, bowing low before leaving the tent.

“Not you, Merlin,” Arthur started, realizing too late that Merlin had not moved.

Merlin looked at him with shining eyes. “I wouldn’t leave.”

Though he wanted to say something else, all that left him was a flippant, “That bad?”

A watery smile. “No. I have faith.”

He was everything a knight of Camelot should aspire to be. Arthur felt a cage constrict around his heart, a vice of regret borne of the knowledge that he could never make amends. That there was no more time.

“Do all the knights know? Have they all seen?”

Merlin’s eyes widened with brief surprise at the question. “No. I… I covered you with a cloak when I saw you were wounded.” He bit his lip. “So they would not be distracted in the battle.”

“Of course,” Arthur allowed. “But now? Surely they’ve all seen?”

Merlin shook his head. “I’ve only allowed Gwaine, Lancelot, and Leon in this tent,” he said. “I have the most medical training. They’re all listening to me.”

“Why,” Arthur breathed, hoping Merlin would understand the true question, that he would give a true answer, now that Arthur lay at death’s door.

“So they would not lose hope,” Merlin answered, and Arthur’s heart clenched, that Merlin would not trust him, even now.

Merlin shuffled closer, holding his body carefully apart from the hard cot as he did so, so as not to jostle Arthur. The blessedly cool touch of a wet cloth mopping his brow was like heaven, but the involuntary shudders that followed brought fresh waves of searing pain.

“Arthur,” Merlin cried, helpless, taking Arthur’s hand in his own.

Even through the fog of pain, there was profound relief at the touch. Arthur squeezed down, hard, the movement involuntary, borne of need. He realized he might be hurting Merlin and loosened his iron grip, but Merlin clutched him with surprising strength, until Arthur felt the bones in his hand scraping together. Merlin’s face was close, so close. Arthur’s breath came harsh. “Merlin—”

Sir Leon entered the tent, Sir Kay in tow. Arthur swallowed his words. Once again, they would have to wait.

* * *

Once Sir Kay did his due diligence, asking questions to ensure that Arthur was of sound mind, Leon produced parchment and ink. Sir Kay folded himself into the far corner of the tent to appear as unobtrusive as possible. A considerate act from one of Camelot’s oldest and most faithful knights, but Arthur would not have it, summoning him closer to ensure every word was heard clearly. There was already high chance that his father could ignore his wishes; he would not have it be so on a technicality.

Arthur went through his wishes mechanically. As he spoke, Merlin would feed him small sips of water from a skin, would boldly ask them to pause for long minutes when Arthur’s pain surged, until it abated and he could resume.

Leon himself would take his place as First Knight. He named Morgana his heir, heir to Camelot’s throne too. He went through the technicalities of inheritance and his personal belongings. Excalibur would go to Lancelot. His best shield, gilded and magnificent, would go to Percival, and the matching gauntlets to Gwaine. Dear Hengroen would pass to Elyan’s care. He divided his personal wealth, the gold even Uther had no right to touch, in half; half would go to the public, to the kingdom’s orphanages and the poor, and the other half would go to Gaius. He then asked Leon to pen another letter, a private one that would be given to Gaius by Leon’s own hand after his wishes were read. This letter told Gaius that he was to keep a quarter of the wealth for himself and pass on the rest discreetly to two servants, in a way that kept them safe from Uther’s detection and his anger. Another quarter would go to Guinevere, and half to Merlin.

Arthur dared not look at Merlin as he spoke those last words, afraid he would lose the composure needed to continue.

When he was finished, the document signed by Sirs Leon and Kay and then by his own shaky hand, Arthur thanked Sir Kay and gently asked him for a moment alone with Leon.

“Sire.” After bowing low, Sir Kay raised his head. “I have known your father since he was a boy and served Camelot for much of my life.”

For a moment, Arthur was afraid that the man who had witnessed the tangible evidence of how much Arthur cared for servants, cared for _Merlin,_ would dare to challenge him. He wished he could sit up straight.

But Sir Kay continued, “And I am proud to witness the man you’ve become. I believe you exemplify all of Camelot’s finest ideals, and if this is our goodbye, then I want you to know that I regret being robbed of calling you my king.”

With a final nod, Sir Kay made his departure, shaking his head as he went, muttering things Arthur did not fully hear. Arthur thought he heard the words “tragedy” and “sorcery” and his blood froze.

“What’s that about?” he asked Leon as calmly as he was able.

“When I told him how… dire the situation was, he was quite angry,” Leon said.

Arthur was surprised to hear this. Sir Kay was a good man, but he was his father’s knight. Arthur had never cultivated the same closeness with him as he had with his contemporaries, the men he chose.

“He spoke some… harsh words, sire, about the quest,” Leon continued, and this surprised Arthur too. “He said that the quest wasn’t necessary, among other words, and that the cost paid was too high.”

Arthur had to agree with Sir Kay on that. How ironic, how needless and _stupid,_ that he would die due to another one of his father’s sorcery-driven missions.

“Those words were spoken in a heightened state of emotion,” Arthur said, catching Leon’s eye meaningfully. Heard by the wrong ears, they could be considered treason. “The adrenaline of battle mixed with grief. We will disregard them.”

“Yes, sire.”

Merlin smoothly cut in to give him another sip of water, the liquid like nectar sliding down his throat. It seemed that, on his last day, Merlin had suddenly learned how to be a perfect servant.

Sated and exhausted, Arthur rested his head against the mountain of pillows at his back as he would not allow himself to do when he was delivering his last wishes. “I would ask more of you,” Arthur told Leon. “Not as your prince, but as your friend.”

“Anything,” came Leon’s swift response.

“Take care of Morgana.” Arthur wished he had someone better to pass this mission to—someone who knew her, unlike Leon who had no existing relationship with her besides propriety and deference—but there was no one. Once again, he refused to look at Merlin, wishing to maintain his conviction for now. “She is hurting and lost. Her relationship with my father has suffered in recent years, and I fear how it will be for her, when it is the two of them alone. Remind her to be patient… she has a tender heart, and she feels pain keenly. You have always seen the good around you— teach her, remind her. You have known her as long as I, and I believe that if you extended your hand she would accept your friendship.”

Leon looked as if he had many questions to ask, but he nodded, ever dutiful. “I promise.”

“May I add something, Arthur?”

Arthur was surprised at the interruption, even more so as there was none of the usual insolence in Merlin’s tone. He was utterly grave. “You may.”

“Ask Gaius to look after her.” Merlin’s brow stitched, as if choosing his words with great care. “Tell him… tell him to nurture her, as he nurtured me.”

Leon’s face cracked into a relieved, much-needed smile. “You can tell him yourself, Merlin.”

Merlin nodded, smiling back, though it did not reach his eyes. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

* * *

Arthur spoke to Lancelot next. Merlin didn’t object, didn’t at all react poorly when Arthur asked him to leave the tent for the space of their conversation, and this deference reminded Arthur of how dire the situation was.

“The first day I met you, you proved yourself to be the most noble and honorable man I’ve ever met,” Arthur told Lancelot. “Though I was not quick to see it,” he added, a poor attempt at a jest to lighten the tight line of Lancelot’s shoulders high as his ears.

“You found your way, sire,” Lancelot responded kindly, graciously, as was his way.

“With Merlin’s help,” he responded unthinkingly, and this succeeded in twisting Lancelot’s lips into a smile. It quickly fell when Arthur said, “It seems you will be charged with two of the people dearest to me.”

Tight as a bowstring Lancelot was, his voice quivering too. “Sire?”

“I know you’ve heard.” Not many in the citadel knew of Arthur’s interest in Gwen, let alone when his secret courtship of her had ended. But Merlin knew, and so Arthur knew that Lancelot knew. In truth, a part of him expected to see Lancelot and Guinevere beginning to walk hand in hand through the courtyard sometime in recent weeks, but it never happened. Noble Lancelot, as usual, denied himself.

“Yes.” Lancelot lowered his gaze. “But her heart belongs to you.”

“Guinevere loves you.” Arthur spoke gently, as if cooing to a frightened bird. That such a strong man could remind him of such a creature was laughable, but it spoke volumes of the honor of Lancelot’s intentions and the purity of his love for Gwen. Already, Arthur felt months of tension seeping from his bones. “She would have loved you always had you not made her choice for her.”

Lancelot winced as his mind undoubtedly returned to what had occurred after Hengist’s den. “I could not stand between you,” Lancelot said weakly.

“And that is my wish now.” Arthur would have raised a hand to squeeze Lancelot’s shoulder if he could. “Do what you will, but my path and Guinevere’s no longer intertwine.”

It was this last that seemed to soften Lancelot’s resolve, his shoulders relaxing and a knowing look coming to his eye.

Arthur sighed, a twinge in his chest mingling with the physical pain in his body. “There is the matter of Merlin.”

Lancelot tensed again, his eyes wary as he waited. Arthur knew Lancelot was a loyal knight, but perhaps his loyalty to Merlin’s friendship would come first.

“I don’t want him to stay in Camelot after I’m gone,” Arthur said. “I would prefer he return to Ealdor so he can be with someone who loves him, but I won’t tell him where to go.”

Lancelot looked pained. _“We_ love him, sire.”

Arthur knew this. “But you can’t protect him.”

Even idealistic Lancelot knew this was true, it seemed, by the sag of his shoulders, the instant defeat.

After they said their goodbyes, a finality Lancelot tried to resist, Arthur did not ask him to send in Merlin. Merlin would come, and so he did, moments after the tent sealed out Lancelot, and then it was finally, _finally,_ the two of them alone with nothing left to lose.

* * *

“You’re hurt.”

Arthur wanted to choose more eloquent words to start this most important of conversations, to mark this moment he had been longing for since… Arthur wasn’t even sure how long, only the gods knew. But those words were the ones his addled mind chose, though it seemed to please Merlin, judging by the breathless chuckle that escaped him.

“So are you.”

A mirroring relief spread through him, a tangible thing that jolted his ribs, wringing a pained cry from his lips. When Arthur was able to focus his blurred gaze on Merlin’s face again it was no longer smiling, but ashen and grave.

“I need to change your bandages,” Merlin was saying, no longer across the tent but beside him. Arthur could not feel the bandages but he saw the red stain Merlin’s hands after the slightest touch, dark as ink. If the blood was seeping from him so quickly the bandages should have been changed long ago. But Merlin had waited until Arthur sorted his affairs, knowing this was what he would want.

“Merlin.” Arthur halted his progress with a weak grip on his arm, quickly dropped, but it was enough. “It can wait.”

“It really can’t.”

 _“Merlin.”_ He’d said the name so many times, so _many_ times in the years between them that it hardly sounded like a word. It was second nature, a caress of the tongue. “I need to speak with you.”

“No.” Merlin’s eyes had grown to twice their size. “You’re not saying goodbye. Not like you did with them, I’m not them.”

He knew what Merlin meant, that he wouldn’t accept it like they had, that he would claw and fight until Arthur was in his tomb, never surrendering hope even if it meant he would never hear Arthur’s last words.

“No, you are not them.”

The way he said it—tender and heavy, like every one of his heartbeats were wrapped in the syllables, like nothing else in the world mattered but that Merlin hear him— spoke the words Arthur could not give voice to. The way Merlin’s eyes widened, the way his hands shook between them, settled over the exposed skin of his chest, told him he understood.

“You are more to me,” Arthur added, just to be sure, his voice breaking on the third word.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was a thread.

On his deathbed, Arthur Pendragon would not leave anything to chance. “For some time, I… I have felt a fondness, a longing for you I could not confess. As the crown prince of Camelot, I am not free to…” He sighed, stilled his tongue. Regrets and worldly limitations no longer mattered. “But I will not die without you knowing.”

The bow of Merlin’s perfectly shaped mouth trembled. Arthur’s eyes traced the path of a single tear down one pale, bloodied cheek.

“You must know I feel the same,” Merlin breathed. “You _must.”_

Arthur blinked. “It is news to me,” he said, unable to help the smile spreading across his mouth, the way his limbs melted as if in a milk bath. “Most welcome news.” 

Merlin sighed, a sigh that sounded a lot like _idiot,_ and just as Arthur summoned the strength to raise his hand to Merlin’s nape and draw him close, Merlin’s own hand settled on the heated skin of Arthur’s neck, fingers stretching to cradle his jaw. He pulled Merlin close with all his strength, which was not enough to move him, but Merlin came willingly.

Merlin’s mouth was salt streaked, yet the first touch of their lips tasted sweet. Arthur pressed light, learning kisses to Merlin’s lips, molding and pulling back and repeating. Unbearably soft. Slowly their mouths opened, the first stretch of Arthur’s tongue into Merlin’s mouth drawing a whimper. Arthur groaned, lost already, weak, and this seemed to awaken a vigor in Merlin, who deepened the kiss in a way that made him groan again. Arthur tasted copper, blood from a cut somewhere within the cavity of Merlin’s mouth, and he licked into it, tasting and searching and soothing.

Arthur kissed Merlin long past the point of his mouth going numb, his hands long since dropped uselessly to his sides, his fingers no longer rubbing the soft hairs at Merlin’s nape. His eyelids would grow heavy and then he would startle and find Merlin’s velvet mouth again. Suddenly he realized he was losing consciousness, and the knowledge made him scramble, trying to rise to his elbows and searching for the will and the words to shout. He thought he was ready, he thought he had accepted it—but—

“Shhh,” Merlin soothed. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

 _Promise,_ Arthur wanted to demand, suddenly afraid.

* * *

“Merlin.”

Arthur’s voice broke as if he couldn’t manage the name. It was this that turned Merlin’s head. He promised himself after the last time Arthur fell asleep that he wouldn’t stare at him when he was unconscious, that it served no purpose but to torture.

But Merlin looked now. He saw the sheen of sweat on the prince’s brow, glinting in the darkness. Saw his eyes, like hot coals.

“Tell me how you light your fires.”

This was the last thing Merlin expected. His limbs filled with lead.

“I—” Merlin choked, unable to speak his refusal, as if he were the one who lay dying. He might as well have been. He had always felt Arthur’s pain more keenly than his own.

“Merlin.” Arthur shifted forward, bringing his face into the torch light, illuminating his pained features. The small movement caused him to wince. When the pain passed Arthur’s face was stricken and needful, a pleading expression Merlin wasn’t used to seeing on his features. _I’m dying—_ Merlin heard the words, though Arthur did not leave them unspoken for long.

“I want to hear this final secret,” Arthur said, voice thin but strong. “While I still have time.”

“You’re _not_ running out of _time,”_ Merlin barked, pleaded. “We’re to be two old codgers, walking around the citadel together. Remember?”

Arthur drew in a sharp, pained breath. Instantly, Merlin rose to his haunches, hands stuttering out to help—though how, _how?_ He bunched those useless hands into fists at his sides, barely felt the bite of his fingernails into the flesh of his palms. He had already tried to save Arthur with every healing spell he knew. All of them had failed.

Merlin’s eyes roved over Arthur, trying to gauge the source of the pain—but it seemed to have faded. Arthur’s body was not tense, he was not clutching his side. When Merlin met his eyes he found Arthur watching him, intent and curious.

“Would you have remained my servant, even in old age?”

“Yes.” Merlin’s reply was swift. How many times had he promised just that?

Arthur’s mouth opened to say something, but a cough stole his words. Merlin jumped to his side, unable to pat his back through his fit of coughing for fear of aggravating his wounds, settling on a light stroke instead. When Arthur had calmed, Merlin was quick to bring the water skin to his lips.

“A manservant is a young man’s job, Merlin,” Arthur spoke as soon as he’d done no more than wet his lips.

“When have conventions ever stopped me?” He shot back, distracted into their normal pattern as he tried to force Arthur to drink more water while the stubborn prince pulled his head away, though he wasn’t strong enough to move out of reach. He’d bat his hands away if he could, and Merlin felt the prick of fresh tears at his eyes.

Arthur chuckled, the edge of it a dry wheeze. “No, you’ve never done as you’re told. Not even now.”

It was hard to ignore the temptation of Arthur’s meaningful gaze, to stay firm. To give in would be to concede Arthur’s point—that there was no more time, that there was no more hope for Arthur. And that, Merlin would never do.

“I understand you even less now, Merlin.” Arthur shook his head. “You would have bent to shine my shoes and carried buckets of water to fill my baths when your back in old age would not have allowed it. But you won’t trust me now.”

A flare of something fervent and biting surged in Merlin’s chest. “I would do whatever I had to, to remain by your side.”

“Yes.” Despite Arthur’s intent gaze on him, Merlin was struck with the strange sense that he wasn’t speaking to him at all. His voice was full of epiphany and wonder. “And you would have been… _actually_ , truly been… happy.” 

_Would have._ Arthur’s surrender to his death struck Merlin like a blade. He could hardly focus on the remainder of Arthur’s words. “Please, Arthur, don’t say such things. Don’t give up.”

Arthur sighed, deep and long-suffering, a sound Merlin knew well, especially when directed at him. He spoke softly. “Do you think I would have let them light the pyre?”

“Stop that,” Merlin snapped, perhaps the most blunt and insolent he’s ever been with the prince, hands trembling around the water skin he still held. “Stop talking like you’re never going to leave this tent.”

“You’ve always been a bit blind when it comes to me, Merlin, but even _you_ must know Gaius won’t make it in time.”

Merlin’s trembling grew stronger as Arthur grew bolder. It stoked a similar boldness in him, as the prince always did. “If you really know anything, my _lord,_ then you know that Gaius’s arrival doesn’t matter. Not at all.”

Arthur’s gaze steeled over. “You will not save my live with magic, Merlin.”

There. It was spoken, finally, sitting in the small space between them. Merlin would never have expected it like this, to be the Arthur who guessed it, _Arthur_ who was trying to pull a confession from Merlin as he lay on his deathbed.

Merlin responded the only way he knew how, though there was no bite and no joy in it. Only weariness. “Is that an order, sire?”

“Answer me.” Firm voice gone soft, near a whisper. “Do you think I would have watched you die?”

“Not watched,” Merlin mumbled, regretting his lack of thought as Arthur winced as though he’d been slapped.

“I don’t mean to offend you,” Merlin added lamely. He wanted to say more, was desperate to explain himself, but he could not find the words. He’d rehearsed this moment many times in his head— more a wishful dream than a moment— but it had never looked like this. Arthur, bone-pale and bloodied.

Arthur’s anger, he had expected.

Merlin was angry, too. Angry that it fell to him to explain why he was rightfully afraid for his life, when Arthur knew who his father was, knew what the king had done.

“No?” Arthur bristled, sounding near-healthy in his self-righteousness. “You’re accusing me of being the kind of man who would have looked away while my oldest—my only—while _you_ were executed.” Arthur fell back against the cushions. “I have told you what you mean to me,” he whispered.

Merlin thought of Morgana, trapped, going mad with fear. Even she, so beloved to Uther, did not feel safe from the reach of the pyre. But he couldn’t tell Arthur that.

“Gwen’s father was executed on suspicion alone,” Merlin swallowed. “So many others you could not have helped.”

“Others I _did_ _not_ help, you mean.” Arthur held up a hand before Merlin could protest, as he meant to. “I was wrong to stand by,” he allowed, brows pinching and gaze falling downwards in the heavy expression Arthur wore when confronted by his own shortcomings.

“But they are not you, Merlin.”

The confession sits between them, heavy and sweet. Merlin had _hoped,_ hoped in the darkest, secret pockets of night that he was right about Arthur, that he was right about what he meant to him.

“I don’t think you would have let me be executed,” Merlin conceded, the truth unveiling itself just then, petals of a flower opening to the sky. “I think you would have sent me away.”

Arthur blinked, and Merlin knew he was right.

“And I couldn’t bear that.” Merlin’s voice broke, and a day ago he might have been embarrassed, but not today. Not when there was not a single secret left. “I had to be near you.”

Arthur’s dry lips parted, his eyes large and obscenely blue against the pallor of his skin. “To protect me.”

It was almost a question, and Merlin grasped at it. “Yes, but…” He fiddled with the frayed edges of his shirtsleeves, dropping his eyes to the dirt floor. “To be _near_ you.”

“Merlin…”

Before him, Arthur raised his arm so it hung stiffly away from his body; and Merlin understood, shifting from his place behind him to burrow into the cradle of Arthur’s side, mindful not to apply pressure, though the worst of the wounds were on the left side. Near his heart.

Merlin held a sob in behind his teeth, burrowed his face into the naked, clammy skin between Arthur’s neck and shoulder.

“You should have trusted me,” Arthur grumbled against his hair, resignation and forced levity in his voice. “I might actually surprise everyone and _do the right thing_ , given half a chance.”

“I know you would.” Merlin spoke sincerely, as he always did when he spoke to Arthur of his worth. “But I’m not sure there is a right thing, while you’re only a prince.”

Arthur scoffed. “Only you would utter the phrase, _‘only_ a prince.’ What else do you want from me?”

 _A whole and healthy Albion, with you at the helm, my king._ But Merlin couldn’t get the words out, not when Arthur was so diminished, damp with blood. “You know what I mean,” he mumbled instead.

Arthur sighed. “Yes. It would have been difficult.”

Again, that cursed _would have._ Merlin nearly reacted to it once more, then held his tongue. “I didn’t want to put you in that position. Where you have to choose.” _Between me and your father_ was left unsaid. “Until you are king, there’s only so much you can do. And Arthur, I’ve _seen_ you do everything you can—you smuggled the druid boy out of Camelot, you’ve helped where you could.”

He felt Arthur tilt his chin downwards, pulled away a fraction to meet his eyes. “I have only become the person I am because of your guidance, Merlin.”

Merlin didn’t know how to respond to this, the intense admiration in Arthur’s eyes, this genuine praise. Arthur spoke again. “You reshaped my worldview, taught me to think for myself. I owe you much—and I knew that even before I deduced your secret.”

“Aren’t you angry with me?” Merlin felt tears roll down his face, his throat blocked so that his next words came out hoarse. “You would not tolerate years of lies from one of your knights.”

“No. I don’t think I would tolerate it from anyone else, in fact.” Arthur raised his hand—to touch him, Merlin realized, and he leaned in to spare Arthur the expenditure of effort, sighing when his thumb stroked across his cheek. “You stayed in Camelot, the most dangerous place in the known world for you—you cleaned chamber pots and mucked stables and let me order you about when you could have been _any_ thing, when you hold more power than I could ever… all to serve me, to keep me from harm, to nurture me into being a better man. You did all this for a kingdom that would kill you. You are brave and noble and more selfless than anyone I’ve ever met… believe me when I say I would not admit any of this, were I not surely dying.”

 _“Arthur,”_ Merlin cried. Tears have long since been spilling down his face, sliding down Arthur’s hand.

“Hush,” Arthur went on. “So yes, I forgive you for this _one_ omission. If you can forgive me for my multitude of sins.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Merlin replied swiftly, instinctually.

Pain flashed across Arthur’s features. “There is. I—I’m sorry for all of it.”

“It was worth it, Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at him with eyes once again filled with wonder. “You amaze me. Your capacity for—”

A guttural groan breaks his words.

“Arthur,” Merlin panicked, sitting up straight, cradling an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and feeling gently with his free hand down Arthur’s wounded side. The barest touch, yet his fingertips came away slick and warm and red.

Merlin stared at the offending stain on his trembling hand. “We don’t have much time,” he whispered hoarsely.

“No—I’ve been trying to tell you.” Wincing and pulled taught with pain, Arthur still managed to mock.

“Lie back.” Gently as he could, Merlin moved Arthur’s body until he was prone, hoping it eased his pain.

Arthur’s hand snagged on Merlin’s nape as he pulled away, stopping him. His brow was pinched with effort, his eyes nearly closed. “Merlin—Merlin, let me— come here—”

Merlin followed the tug of Arthur’s hand, let his face fall to Arthur’s—not a crash but an effortless slide, fitting into the space he was meant to inhabit. Below the slide of Arthur’s tongue, in the hollow of his mouth.

The heat of Arthur’s blood on his hands did not allow Merlin to rest into the kiss. He could feel Arthur’s lips moving with purpose against his, not the rhythm of kissing but the forming of words, and Merlin pulled away to hear.

“One more time,” Arthur was murmuring, his eyes half closed, and Merlin was alarmed to see the visible slice was glassy. “Before—”

“You are _not_ dying.” Merlin pulled away, wiping his shaking hands on his dirty trousers as he tried to gather his wits for what he had to do. “This is not the last time.”

“Do me a favor, Merlin.” Though his eyes were still closed, Merlin was relieved to hear Arthur sounding like himself. Full of authority. Insufferable. “No more lies.”

Arthur shivered pitifully, taking the sting Merlin did not know if he meant or did not mean out of his words. Without thinking, without even _looking,_ Merlin stretched out a hand and whispered the spell.

_“Aeled fyr.”_

He only then realized what he’d done, gaze whipping to Arthur. He found Arthur watching the dancing flames within the heat lantern with wide, glinting eyes. Eyes he could not decipher.

“I wanted to tell you,” Merlin confessed, though the conversation was closed. “So many times.”

But Arthur only shook his head, hint of a smirk turning his mouth. “I knew it,” he muttered, and it startled Merlin into a laugh.

“Insufferable know-it-all,” he mutters.

“Heard that!”

Merlin looked at Arthur, intending to respond to the jab, but sobered instantly. Arthur’s eyes were slipping closed again, his chest moving too slowly with his laborious breath. The bandages wrapped around him had grown darker.

“There are many who need you to live.” Despite his best efforts his tone must have betrayed him, because Arthur’s gaze sharpened and focused on him, and he started trying to lift his head. “A kingdom made of kingdoms. So many people I can’t count.”

“I know what you wished for me, Merlin,” Arthur said sorrowfully, but Arthur _couldn’t_ know, so Merlin plowed on.

“Some of them are people like me,” Merlin continued. “You’re the only one who can help them. The only one who can create an Albion where they can live without fear. And that’s why I must disobey you once more.”

Merlin blinked at the sting of tears in his eyes, let them fall. There was a reason he had never tried this spell with Arthur near death, not when there was always another option. Arthur may be right, this may be the last time, but not for the reason he thought.

Arthur was watching him, listening with his whole body, eyes tracking his tears with a newly sharp gaze. “Merlin, _don’t.”_

Merlin heard the hitch of panic in Arthur’s voice, knew he understood, even if he couldn’t possibly know. They had always used other words to say goodbye.

“A life for a life.” Arthur’s eyes were cutting as glass. “I remember what Morgause—what my mother—told me, about how magic works—and Merlin—”

Arthur’s rant was ended by a fierce cough. Merlin watched Arthur swallow on what must have been a dry throat. Merlin leaned forward to rest the water skin against Arthur’s thigh. He would be well enough to take it soon.

“If you know what I’m going to try to do, then you know I believe you’re worth it.”

“I think not!” Arthur bellowed, the surprising bout of strength followed by immediate collapse. “You will not—Merlin, I know you have been keen since the beginning to die for me, but you’ve never really—please don’t _actually—”_

It hurt to watch; Arthur pleading, flopping like a fish, blood inking his side. It would end soon. Merlin raised his hands, felt the first surge of power.

Arthur stilled. He felt it too. “Merlin, no.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide in his face. They flit around the tent, which was slowly filling with a cool blue light so unlike the dance of warm light and shadows from the fire.

“Don’t.” A threadbare warning, thrumming with power, even with Merlin like this. Somehow, Arthur thought he could still order him about. “You can’t do this. You can’t make this trade.”

“I can.”

“You _won’t!_ You will let me go and you will find—” His voice cracked. “—peace one day, but you will not risk yourself or use your magic to save my life again.”

“But that’s its purpose.” _My_ purpose. “I don’t regret a thing.”

Merlin started chanting the words, both hands raised as he cast, overwhelming Arthur’s senseless protests and pained groans. He sensed the moment Arthur lost consciousness, though he would have even without his magic inside him—he stilled completely, mouth and mind, the blankness Merlin sensed frightening. _It’s only temporary,_ he reminded himself and went on, healing the prince from the inside and shouldering his burdens once more.

Arthur was right—Merlin _did_ find peace—only it was here and now and not in some distant, impossible future without him. It was in the heartbeat between the end of the successful casting and the jolt of the dirt floor on his knees as he fell. _Arthur lives,_ he thought, whole and happy as the darkness swallowed him.

* * *

When Arthur woke, that was the first thing he remembered—the brilliant, manic smile on Merlin’s face, lit by blue even as his eyes burned gold.

_I don’t regret a thing._

He jolted awake, sitting up fluidly, surprise coming slowly when his body didn’t instantly punish him for the quick movement. Arthur pressed a hand to his wounded side, expecting the agony that had been his final companion, but there was no well of pain and no stickiness of blood seeping through bandages.

He clawed at them, needing to be sure as memories of chants in a nonsensical language spoken in Merlin’s voice gone deep and guttural infiltrated his mind. Memories of himself, begging, feeling more powerless and desperate than he ever had.

The flesh was new and healthy beneath the clean white wrappings. Arthur poked the pink, tight skin once, then again in wonder, before leaping to his feet as reality crashed around him, as he remembered Merlin’s trade.

He left his tent as he was, bandages hanging off him like ribbons, in nothing but sweat-soaked trousers, his eyes blazing and his hands fists at his sides, thinking nothing of it until he was standing in the middle of camp with half his knights blinking at him in shock.

Leon moved first. “Sire!” He stared brazenly at Arthur’s bare torso, then unfastened the clasp at his throat and crossed the distance to Arthur, wrapping him in his crimson cloak. Then he knelt.

“Then it’s true, sire. I am relieved. Gaius said the wound was not as deep as it seemed,” Leon said meaningfully, eyes on Arthur’s feet.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed emphatically, shame suffusing him at his lack of foresight. He had left the tent with evidence of Merlin’s magic painted across his body for all the knights to see. They were not all as loyal—or _disloyal—_ as Leon.

“Thank the gods you are alive and well.”

Arthur could not find it in himself to respond courteously, run by the wild thrum of his heartbeat in his throat. “Is Merlin?”

“Merlin is resting,” Leon responded, too vague. “He is down with fever.”

Arthur didn’t believe that for a moment. “I need to see him.”

When none of the knights moved—not Gwaine, who avoided the prince’s gaze with a stubborn tilt to his chin, not even Lancelot—Arthur narrowed his eyes. _“Now.”_

Another voice responded. “Come with me, sire.”

Arthur recognized the voice before he turned, and it filled him with relief. Gaius stood at the edge of camp, undoubtedly drawn from Merlin’s side when he heard Arthur bellowing.

He was halfway across when Gwaine blocked his path. Arthur felt his jaw click in irritation as his footsteps halted, his already tense fists squeezing tighter. But when he looked into Gwaine’s face he saw the fear written across his features, an emotion he tried to hide behind the challenge blazing in his eyes.

“Leave us,” Arthur commanded in a clipped tone. He looked around the camp at the dumbstruck knights. “All of you, but Lancelot and Leon. _Now.”_

They scurried away. It seemed some knights knew how to obey their prince. Gwaine, however, stood firm, blocking his path.

“I will accompany you. _Sire.”_ The deference was an afterthought, tacked on through gritted teeth.

“I wish to speak to Merlin alone.” 

“Forgive me, my lord,” Lancelot interjected, voice resigned but underlined by steel, and it was then that Arthur understood that they had known. They had suspected as Arthur had suspected—perhaps for much longer—and now they had their evidence.

_Merlin, you idiot._

“We wish to be present when you… pass your judgment, sire.”

His _judgment._ Arthur looked at Lancelot—his beard had grown haggard from neglect, aging him years in the last few days. And though that neglect may have come from worry for his prince as he lay on his deathbed, Arthur knew that Lancelot would not stand by and watch Arthur pass judgment on Merlin that was anything but merciful.

A quick glance at the frenzy in Gwaine’s eyes, at the unsubtle gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, told Arthur of the other knight’s loyalties, too.

Arthur sighed. His knights were meant to follow him unequivocally—no man could serve two masters, a lesson hammered into Arthur since he was a boy. Were it anyone but Merlin who usurped him by worming his way into their hearts, taking the loyalty the knights were supposed to give him, he would have cut the threat at the root. Cut the knights, too.

But it _was_ Merlin, and he could hardly blame them.

“I am your prince.” His voice was a bit hoarse, but Arthur couldn’t find it within himself to resent the vulnerability. Let them think it an effect of lying on his deathbed mere hours before. “And I will speak to Merlin alone.”

“Then let me be blunt,” Gwaine started.

“Because you haven’t been already?” Arthur snapped.

Gwaine fumed. “Merlin has done _so_ much—”

“I know what he’s done.”

“All due respect, sire,” Lancelot interrupted quietly. “I don’t think you do.”

Arthur sighed. “No, perhaps not. But I will know. I will find out everything.”

“And how will you reward Merlin for this divulgence? For his many, _many_ sacrifices?”

Knighthood was the least of what Merlin deserved, yet Merlin was both less and more than a knight. He couldn’t imagine lanky Merlin with a sword at his side, hefting up a shield. It was nearly a disgrace, as Merlin was worth more than twenty knights, worth more than an army. He couldn’t imagine how he would explain it to his father, whose best reaction would be to laugh it off. The worst reaction was one Arthur did not wish to contemplate.

 _Until you are king._ Merlin’s words from the night before rushed back to him.

“I will not reward him with my blade, you can be sure of that.” Arthur met Gwaine’s and then Lancelot’s gazes evenly, then looked at Gaius. Belatedly he perceived the old man’s terror in that moment. Gaius valued Merlin as a son, yet he was waiting for Arthur’s judgment like the rest of them. Arthur would not fail him. “Merlin will come to no harm from me.”

Arthur walked toward Gaius, anxious to see Merlin. Gwaine took a step along with him. Arthur paused, stared.

“I give you my word.” Arthur’s voice, delivered through gritted teeth, would have made a mountain tremble. “Is that not enough?”

“It is,” Gwaine replied reluctantly, finally sweeping aside, though Lancelot’s hand on his elbow might have played a part in that.

Arthur followed Gaius. It was a longer walk than he expected, and his skin itched with impatience. He assumed they had distanced Merlin from camp to deflect attention from him, though Arthur had just ruined their efforts with his display.

“Gaius,” he said, slightly ashamed at the pleading note in his voice. “Tell me.”

“From my deduction, it was not just the sword of a random bandit who struck you. I believe it was the Valkyrie. I was wrong, sire… she doomed you to die, and her death did not remove her curse. If it was not this bandit’s sword, it would have been something else. Think of it as a chain of assassins she controls from the grave. She would not have stopped until one of them succeeded.”

Arthur was shocked. The answer he received was not to the question he asked, and a part of him was curious—his mind rushed through several near-death incidents between the Valkyrie and now— but the source of his wound didn’t matter.

“But Merlin… Leon said he was _resting,_ I assumed…”

His chest was tight. He knew nothing about magical wounds, but everyone was acting as if Merlin was _alive,_ he must be alive—

“He lives, sire.” A wizened hand rested on his elbow, Gaius’s gaze steady and reassuring. Arthur realized they had stopped walking, and he shook himself and quickly resumed the pace.

“Were this but a wound from a sword, Merlin would have taken it and died from it,” Gaius continued, and Arthur swallowed, terrified and angry at the image Gaius was inviting him to contemplate. _Merlin, you idiot._ “But because it was magical in nature, meant for you and not for him, it did not transfer.”

“He’s alright, then.” It was a miracle, more than he’d hoped.

“He is… a little worse for wear,” Gaius answered carefully. “You were still fatally wounded, and Merlin had to accept your pain.”

Arthur didn’t understand. His jaw felt painfully tight. He didn’t want to talk anymore. “Show me,” he demanded, abandoning his consideration for the elderly man and quickening his pace.

When the tent and the large silhouette of Sirs Percival and Elyan guarding it came into view, Arthur abandoned pretense and started running. With nothing more than a nod to the knights, he rushed inside.

Merlin was standing by a table, his back to the tent’s opening, and it was more than Arthur could have hoped for. The sound of Arthur’s entrance seemed to startle him; he half turned and lost his balance, careening for the floor, one arm on the narrow cot breaking his fall.

Arthur was on the floor beside Merlin before he took his next breath. He shouldered Merlin’s insignificant weight, lifting him easily to the cot and sitting beside him. His eyes raked over Merlin’s face, conducting a clinical study even if his heart stood still. Merlin sat silently through the examination, as if he knew Arthur needed it. Merlin’s eyes were brilliant blue, not gold, bruises of sleeplessness and exhaustion below. The scrape along his cheek had been cleaned of dried blood, the cut across his brow stitched. Arthur was glad to see it, but not reassured.

“Show me,” he rasped, not sure what he was asking for, using every ounce of his restraint to keep himself from shredding Merlin’s tunic from his body himself.

Merlin rucked up his tunic so that the fish-white skin of his belly was bared, the slightly paler bandages wrapped around him glaring. Arthur tried to breathe through the thundering roar in his ears. Merlin released a small sigh, knowing what Arthur wanted. Carefully, Merlin peeled the fabric of the bandages up. The foul smell of one of Gaius’s salves hit Arthur’s nose, and he bent close to look, eyes flitting upwards to gauge Merlin’s pain. But Merlin’s face was stoic, and although the wound across his left side was long and not yet fully healed, it was not the twin of the gash that had been on Arthur’s body a day prior. 

“It’s not deep, Arthur,” Merlin finally spoke, voice low and clearly meant to be reassuring, but Arthur could not yet look up from the offending wound.

He skimmed a hand along the edge of Merlin’s bandages, barely a touch. “I don’t understand.”

“I couldn’t heal you. I didn’t understand why, but now I do. The Valkyrie—”

“Yes, Gaius told me,” Arthur interrupted.

“Alright. So… I tried something else.” Merlin sighed. Arthur felt it beneath his hand. “It’s a spell that allows me to take your pain. I’ve done it before.”

Merlin delivered this news lightly, as if it was nothing, and Arthur’s mind filled with possibilities—tournaments, quests, dozens of wounds, dozens of times Merlin was weak and stumbling and so pale he looked translucent. He’d blamed it on poor constitution, on the tavern, on Merlin’s idiocy.

Merlin, who’s always taken the worst of his pain, borne it silently.

“You won’t do it again,” Arthur said, the command hoarse. “You’re to unlearn that— _spell_ quicker than I can throw you in the stocks. Got it?”

“Were it not for Gaius I would have done it earlier,” Merlin said, proud chin high, not at all cowed like a sensible man would be. “I wouldn’t have let it get so bad.” Merlin swallowed, and Arthur followed the movement closely, transfixed by Merlin’s bare throat. “But he made me promise long ago that I wouldn’t use that spell if you were near death.”

 _If it would kill me._ Arthur heard the rest of the sentence, understood Gaius’s explanation better now. His anger returned.

“You were never going to wait for Gaius,” he accused. Merlin’s words to Leon came rushing back, the message to Gaius that he thought he would not be able to deliver. He planned on dying in Arthur’s stead, to save him.

Merlin met his glare evenly, and despite everything a sliver of desire uncurled in his stomach. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

Arthur swore. _“Damn it,_ Merlin. You didn’t know about the Valkyrie, if it wasn’t for the curse— _you_ would have died.”

“A price I would gladly pay,” Merlin protested, fire in his eyes. “This isn’t the first time, Arthur.”

“Stop saying that.” Guilt crawled like fire ants over his skin, clawed at his heart. He wasn’t worthy of such sacrifice, he couldn’t be. And Merlin’s _total_ disregard for his own life—it was infuriating. “And what if one of the knights found us? If they saw what you’d done?”

Twice Merlin had risked his life, Arthur realized. By casting the spell that would trade it for Arthur’s— and by exposing himself. The thought of one of the knights presenting him with Merlin’s head when he woke, taken in Uther’s name, made him lose his breath.

“I was careful,” Merlin hedged. “I always am.”

Arthur didn’t believe that for a moment. _He’d_ seen it, after all, even if it took a while. Merlin was lucky his knights loved him as Arthur did.

“No one else was allowed in the tent, remember? So it was Leon who found me, I think, and he can be trusted. Him and Gwaine hid me away while Lancelot rode out to meet Gaius.”

Arthur tried to hold onto his anger. It was the only thing that kept him from collapsing into tears. “Sheer luck is what saved you. Your life is not an acceptable cost—”

Merlin’s cool hands on Arthur’s face stole his rage. “I don’t think it was luck.”

Serene eyes, cool as the lake in winter. Arthur swallowed as he stared into them. “How can you be so calm?”

“Because I know what we are meant to do.” Merlin leaned forward, pushing the cloak back to rest his forehead on Arthur’s bare shoulder. Something in the air changed, _slowed,_ making Arthur shiver. He turned his head, transfixed, to nuzzle his nose at the skin between Merlin’s neck and shoulder. “You are going to be the greatest king Albion has ever known, and I will deliver you safely to your throne.”

Arthur’s throat was dry. He wanted to continue to protest, to drive the point of the prompt end to Merlin’s sacrificial tendencies, because it was smaller, easier—so much easier than what Merlin invited him to imagine. “How do you know these things?”

“A dragon told me.” Arthur felt more than saw the quirk of Merlin’s lips. “Though I don’t know how well he can be trusted,” Merlin added somberly.

“I don’t know if you’re joking,” Arthur said dryly. Then, thoughtfully: “There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“I can tell you, if you wish,” Merlin said, voice suddenly small.

“Yes.” Arthur wanted to know everything. “But not now.”

Merlin slumped against him, and Arthur sat straighter, happy to hold his weight.

“Don’t send me away.”

A bare whisper that Arthur would not have heard were they not sitting so close. His heart lurched. His hand found the curve of Merlin’s sweaty back, bowed over him, and stroked soothingly. “I should,” Arthur murmured, gritting his eyes tightly against the imagined pain. “I should, but gods damn me, I can’t.”

Arthur felt Merlin’s slow shudder, felt Merlin’s long fingers curl around his hip. Arthur reached beside him and took the other hand, turning his head as he lifted it. He kissed the thin skin of Merlin’s wrist, pleased when he felt Merlin’s pulse quicken under his lips.

Merlin lifted his head. Arthur turned to meet his gaze, more black than blue. His eyes dropped as Merlin’s lips parted. Arthur’s cock stirred—he wondered if Merlin felt it, half sitting in his lap. But before that—

“You will keep your promise to Gaius,” Arthur murmured against Merlin’s wrist, meeting Merlin’s lustful gaze with an even one. “If you won’t do it for me.”

Merlin huffed. “Not fair.”

“You will,” Arthur murmured, feeling by Merlin’s breathless protest he had won, and as he spoke one of Merlin’s fingertips brushed past his lips, and he quickly drew the finger into his mouth.

Merlin gasped, rocking forward in his lap, and when their gazes met Merlin’s eyes were blown wide. “Arthur…”

He had dreamed of this, of Merlin saying his name as he rocked over him, though in his fantasies Merlin wore a lot less clothes, and he wasn’t wounded. Arthur pressed a single, lingering kiss to Merlin’s forehead.

“No,” Merlin protested, accentuating the protest by rocking against Arthur’s cock in a way that made him groan.

“Vixen,” Arthur muttered, biting one of Merlin’s ridiculous ears and then laving over it with his tongue. Merlin squirmed above him, making Arthur’s next words particularly hard to say. “You have to rest.”

“We’re leaving soon,” Merlin said, and Arthur drew back to give him a puzzled look. “Gaius says I can ride.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“We… we can’t stay. There isn’t a reason to. We must be on the road to Camelot, the king must be anxious for your return.” At what must have been Arthur’s murderous look, Merlin’s eyes softened. “Arthur, it’s just a scratch.”

Arthur rose to his feet, intent to sort this out with Gaius and Leon. Merlin would get his rest. They would tell his father whatever they had to.

Merlin’s hand grasped his arm as he started to step away. “Where are you going?”

Arthur looked down at the point of contact, unable to help the flip of his stomach. It would be like this, then, sweetly and always.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, stroking Merlin’s long fingers reassuringly until he let go. “For all they know, it’s their prince that needs his rest.”

Merlin smiled. “You should be wounded, technically.”

Yes—Arthur would have to pretend to be recovering for some time, for Merlin’s sake. He was careful to rearrange the cloak so that it covered him. He wished to return to the activities that had loosened the cloak from his shoulders and dragged it back to bare his chest. The sight of Merlin on the cot, expectant and waiting for him, was hard to walk away from.

But they had time, now.

* * *

The air was chilled when Merlin woke, raising gooseflesh along the skin of his belly, which had been exposed by his tunic dragged up in sleep. _The fire, stoke the fire._ Even half-conscious Merlin answered the urge, raising his hand to cast.

“Merlin, stop.” Arthur’s frustrated, fond breath against his shoulder. “You’ll burn the tent down.”

Suddenly, he didn’t feel cold anymore. The miracle of Arthur beside him, repose in sleep, suffused his skin with warmth. It was more than he’d ever hoped for in this life. He burrowed into Arthur blindly, fitting his face into the hot skin underneath his arm. The leap from chilled to so, _so_ warm made him feel slightly feverish, but that was just as well. The story was that Merlin had come down with a particularly contagious fever, providing a reason for him to be sequestered and an explanation for his weakness.

Arthur’s lips moved against his hair. “Are you cold?”

“Not anymore.”

“If you need more blankets, I’ll bring some. Or bring the lantern closer.”

The thought of Arthur rising from his bed to dote on him released something warm in his chest, melting outwards. He tried to get closer to Arthur’s skin, and Arthur responded in kind, turning onto his side and lifting a leg, Merlin’s leg sliding between, and—

Then they were rutting against each other, Arthur’s bare chest swallowing Merlin’s moans, Arthur groaning into Merlin’s hair. Merlin tilted his head blindly, seeking, yielding to liquid heat when Arthur’s mouth claimed his.

He could feel them— Arthur’s cock hot and hard and straining alongside his own. The friction of their trousers fantastic and frustrating in equal parts. Merlin pushed harder, seeking more.

“Please,” Merlin gasped, consumed by need.

“Shhh,” Arthur soothed, stroking his back like one of the horses who needed calming, even as his tongue laved over his throat.

It drove him wild, the stimulus and restraint in equal measure. “Arthur, if you stop I _will_ set this tent on fire.”

Merlin felt Arthur’s deep chuckle move against his stomach. “It’s like that, is it,” Arthur teased, and Merlin’s retort was stolen by the sensation of Arthur’s hand suddenly on his cock.

“O-oh.” Even the half-grip through his trousers made him see stars, and Merlin grit his teeth. He would not come yet, not in his trousers at the very first touch like a boy.

“Take it, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, then flipped Merlin onto his back and withdrew all the delicious fever and friction as he crawled down his body.

The sight of Arthur’s golden head bent over his trousers, his strong fingers undoing the laces had Merlin clutching the sheets, close to release again. 

Then—

Arthur’s mouth on him was velvet bliss. Merlin thrust into it, helpless—but Arthur’s hands pushed down on his hips, holding him in place, at the mercy of Arthur’s tortuous, open mouthed kisses on his cock. Arthur licked long stripes before pulling back the foreskin and briefly sucking the sensitive head into his mouth, leaving Merlin a writhing, pleading mess against the sheets.

“You taste so good, Merlin,” Arthur murmured against the base of his cock, nose nuzzling at the thatch of dark hair, then lower, where Merlin’s sac was high and tight. Merlin whimpered at the wet stroke of Arthur’s tongue on the sensitive skin, thought his cock was vibrating.

_“Arthur—”_

He could make no demands or requests as Arthur tongued lower, gently pushing Merlin’s legs apart, reducing Merlin’s words to a litany of Arthur’s name. Arthur’s tongue on his entrance, wet and pushing and probing—more and _better_ than he ever imagined, yet not enough—

The withdrawal of Arthur’s mouth from his hole left him bereft and cold, and Merlin opened his eyes, not sure when he’d closed them.

Arthur, balanced on his elbows between his legs, looking down at him with eyes like kindling. It was a sight Merlin would take to his grave.

“You look—gods, beautiful, like this,” Arthur grunted, reverent somehow even as he rutted against the sheets.

“More, please,” Merlin cried.

But Arthur shook his head, wincing as if it pained him to do so. “Not yet.”

“Fuck me,” Merlin begged, and Arthur hissed.

“No, not—not yet—” Arthur was losing control too, his hand tugging on Merlin’s cock, staring at the motion. “Wounded—you can’t take it—”

 _“No,_ I can, I can,” Merlin babbled, mindless.

Arthur returned his mouth to Merlin’s cock as if he had enough of words, taking him deep in his throat, and Merlin’s hips arched off the bed. His feet found purchase and his knees bent—a thumb against his hole, not breaching, a delicious push—Merlin fucked Arthur’s mouth, thrusting up just as Arthur bore down—a perfect rhythm—fluid, destined— _merciless—_ gone—

* * *

Merlin’s vision inked black, and when he blinked his eyes open Arthur was lying beside him, his arm cradling Merlin’s head.

“Arthur… want to make you feel good, too,” Merlin protested, fighting sleep.

But Arthur only hushed him again, the soothing strokes returning. “It’s my turn to give to you.”

The words were both gift and agony. “But—”

Arthur took his wrist, pressed his hand against his open trousers. Merlin felt the sticky moisture there, and brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting Arthur’s essence, salt.

 _“Gods.”_ The word sounded strangled, and Merlin leaned over to take it from Arthur’s lips, swallowing the low groan in his throat. These kisses were lazy, languid strokes of their tongues, and when Merlin pushed up on one elbow and nipped at Arthur’s mouth, Arthur pushed him down firmly.

“Sleep now, Merlin.” Arthur punctuated the command with a brush of his lips, a parting gesture. “When you are well, there will be time for everything.”

Merlin held this promise close to his heart, letting it deliver him to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The fires were banked, the tents packed, every evidence of their existence here wiped away. But Arthur would remember.

Sir Bedivere made a quick report of their progress, said they would be moving before the dawn turned fully into morning. Arthur nodded his approval. They could no longer delay. His father would expect them to start for Camelot as soon as Arthur could be moved, and the knights had all seen that he very much could, though Arthur took care to move sluggishly and favor the side that had been wounded. For Gaius’s sake, they had to leave.

Arthur sought out Merlin.

He was tending to Anglides, though Arthur had asked him to leave the preparations to the squires. Merlin had, of course, disobeyed. He had a soft spot for his mare, as well as Arthur’s horse, and Hengroen had also been prepped by Merlin’s hand.

Arthur’s eyes watched Merlin closely as he moved about the dregs of camp. He moved only slightly slower than usual, and he didn’t seem to be favoring his wounded side, which Arthur had dressed and bandaged himself. That was good. Arthur’s mind reimagined that moment, and a smile turned his lips. To wake with Merlin’s nose against his shoulder and his cold feet digging into his calves had felt natural, like that was the peace he had been missing.

“It’s a good day, sire,” Leon said, no doubt commenting on Arthur’s smile.

“It is,” Arthur said, hoping to appear casual. There would be a day when he would be able to look upon Merlin freely, to love him openly. He didn’t know what it would look like, or when it would be—he still had his duty to Camelot, and was achingly aware that such a day could only be bought with his father’s death. But today was not that day, and discretion was vitally important.

“I think it was a good _night_ he had,” Gwaine commented cheekily, making Leon smile. Arthur glared at the most brash of his knights, carefully scanning the vicinity to ensure no one had heard Gwaine’s lewd comment, but privately he was happy. The tension of the day past seemed to be behind them.

When the procession to Camelot started, Merlin rode in front with Arthur, by his right side, as he always did. None of the knights protested when Arthur ordered them to ride through their meals of dried meat from their packs, breaking only to tend to the horses and not themselves but for the basest instincts. The memory of the sudden attack was fresh in all their minds.

Arthur summoned Merlin close when he could wait no longer.

“When we reach the citadel I want you to go to my chambers and wait there, while I report to my father.” With his near-death experience and the failed quest, Arthur expected the visit to be a long one. “Sir Gwaine will wait with you. I don’t think my father will miss him, and if he does it can be explained away.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Merlin frowned.

Arthur sighed. “Merlin, if this is to work, you’ll have to actually listen to me sometimes,” he said, using a pointed look to communicate the things he could not say when he was surrounded by knights.

To his surprise, Merlin nodded, though his sullen expression suggested he wasn’t happy about it.

“I wanted to take a bath,” Merlin said suddenly, almost a regretful whine, and it pulled a chuckle from Arthur.

“All good things will come in time.”

Merlin arched a brow. “And when did you become such a _patient_ man, my lord?”

Arthur gripped the reins tighter, knowing Merlin was not referring to this incident alone. “Since you came into my protection,” he hissed low.

“I made it this far,” Merlin dared, the defiant spark in his eyes making Arthur want to pull him from his horse and into his lap and make him pliant again.

He shut away those thoughts, focusing on the matter at hand. “If you want to remain my manservant until I am king—”

“What happens after you’re king?” Merlin interrupted, fear in his eyes.

That, Arthur did not know. He had the beginnings of a plan—the lifting of an edict, the start of reparations, the clear dismissal of anyone who held on to the old ways. A new Camelot—and, if Merlin was to be believed, _Albion._

And although Merlin was asking solely about himself, Arthur had no answers there either. All he knew was that Merlin would no longer be a servant, that his place would be as magnificent as the man.

Arthur took care to communicate reassurance as he met Merlin’s gaze, watched Merlin soften underneath it. “I have some ideas,” he grinned. “Maybe you can supply the rest.”

“Pull your own weight for once,” Merlin quipped, pushing his horse into a trot, pulling a laugh from Arthur and forcing him to follow.

When Arthur saw Camelot’s turrets, his heart was light. He met Merlin’s bright eyes. They were home.

* * *

Merlin ignored Arthur’s orders—within reason.

As soon as he entered the citadel, Gwaine by his side, he asked one servant to bring a bath to Arthur’s rooms and another to summon Morgana to Arthur’s chambers in ten candlemarks’ time.

At Merlin’s behest, Gwaine waited outside Arthur’s chambers as Merlin scrubbed the days of dirt and sweat from his body. He wished he could luxuriate in the large tub that the servants had assumed was surely meant for Arthur, but he couldn’t. He cursed his shortsightedness when he left the bath and found he had nothing clean to wear, and after a moment of deliberation pulled on some of Arthur’s older, worn clothes. The tunic hung off him and the trousers were a bit short, but they would do. He couldn’t very well meet with Morgana naked, and the thought of pulling on filthy clothes over his freshly cleaned skin was impossible.

A tentative knock on the door. “Arthur?”

“Come in,” Merlin called. He nodded at Gwaine, who still held the door open, signaling it was fine to close it. Morgana had been looking at Gwaine in puzzlement, but that confusion doubled when she saw it was him who sat within.

“Morgana, I wish to speak with you,” Merlin said, and Morgana’s eyes lit up with life that had not been there for many months. She brought clasped, trembling hands to her mouth.

“I've been waiting.”

* * *

Summer saw the end of fires and the start of long days by the lake, staving off the heat with rolled trousers and feet dipped into the water. Morgana and Gwen were often there, sometimes Lancelot too, and on those days Gwen would glow with happiness, and Merlin and Morgana would exchange pleased glances that the oblivious couple did not see.

Arthur was kept busy by the demanding king, and so the days he was able to go to the lake with them were full of high spirits, and the days he was alone with Merlin in the water were precious.

Summer was languid and glorious and Arthur was the sun itself. Merlin had moved into the servant’s antechamber, where he should have been all along, though he didn’t sleep a single night there, spending every single one in Arthur’s bed.

He was always careful to return to the antechamber before dawn, a sorrowful parting. Merlin did not think it necessary— as _he,_ the prince’s manservant, was the only one allowed in the prince’s chambers without invitation. But Arthur depended on his discretion, grew fearful whenever he imagined Uther discovering the true nature of their relationship. It would be enough to banish him, or worse, and Arthur's worst fear was that Uther would do it when Arthur was asleep.

Summer was sticky and freeing, full of stolen iced treats from the kitchen, Merlin and Gwen giggling like children as they evaded the cook’s ire. They could always use the legitimate and never-questioned excuse that they were transporting these treats to their masters, but this was more fun. He and Gwen had discovered a closer companionship than they’d ever had, now that it was Lancelot who resided in Gwen’s heart rather than Arthur. Merlin could not have wished a better bride for Arthur than his dear friend, but there had been a distance between them borne of a quiet resentment in his heart when she was on Arthur’s arm. Now they spent many an evening talking of her and Lancelot’s impending nuptials in the autumn and of Morgana’s ready smile.

Morgana learned to make shapes out of floating orbs of water on the lake’s edge, and eventually could produce a spark between her hands. She spent many hours learning from Gaius, who reported churlishly that Morgana was much more talented at mixing potions than Merlin was, and couldn’t Merlin for once try to _apply himself?_ There was life in her eyes now that she knew to call her nightmares visions, now that she knew what she was, now that she had people to confide in. Arthur seemed upset when he learned he had both a sorcerer _and_ a seer to protect, but he hid his fear from them, only letting it show in quiet moments when he confided in said sorcerer.

In those moments, Merlin would take Arthur’s hand and shoulder his burdens, and the two would whisper of Albion, of a land without fear.

Summer needed no heat, but when winter came, Prince Arthur kept his manservant very close.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [on tumblr @ missfaber!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/)


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